Energy has no equal
I am genuinely happy as an observer. I've spent far more hours listening to people yak about their problems then talk about mine. I've read more than I've written. My sexual activity has been more passive viewing then active participation. And today my senses were once again in gathering mode.
At 8:00 this morning I flipped on the TV and the station I work for was covering the marathon. I laid in bed for a few minutes, then I realized the race was going down the street a block from my house. I through on the morning gear and walked down to soak in the sights.Since I'm typically annoyed when I wake up I was taking a risk. These are the "happy go-get em" types and I would be thrust into the peak of their day. As I got closer the screams and excitement almost made me turn around, but I trudged forward.
The race has about 20,000 runners and I was positioned at mile seven. Exuberant people lined the sidelines and the sleep in my eyes shuttered as the guy next to me shouted "Go, go, go, go" every thirty seconds. It was always "Go, go, go, go." Four "goes" in a row. Time and time again. I cringed. Then inbetween one of his "go strings" he turned to the guy next to him and said, "That's what I love about cheering for a marathon, you can say the same thing over and over because it's never the same people." I nearly said, "yeah, but what about me???" I decided to move.
I walked toward mile 8 and as I turned a small corner I heard music. It was one of 26 bands that were set up along the course. They were singing Aretha Franklin's "Think" or whatever it's called and the part I heard first was "Freedom, yeah Freedom.... and I shit you not, it almost brought a tear to my eye. The sight was amazing. Thousands of runners raising their hands as they labored past the band and it was impossible not to feel the emotion of the situation. There was a group of young girls dressed as the "Energizer Bunnies," playing the drum like the bunny does in the commercial. People yelling inspiration to the runners. Runners saying things like, "thanks for coming out, it makes a difference," as they ran by. I felt like a winner and loser at the same time. How could I not be running in this race?
I started training, but couldn't get past the mental part and that is sad. If I can physically do something, why can't I wrap my mind around it and run? That feeling didn't last long, though.
Watching this race was an inspiration and if nothing else it has put this blog into motion. All types passed me by. Skinny, fat, injured, ugly, beautiful. Marathon runners are not created equally. Sure, the winners will be thin and gangly, but the other 19,000 will be a lesson in diversity. Why not me?
I saw a guy I work with run by and I shouted his name. He was drenched in sweat and in a daze. I think I startled him, but he seemed happy. Then later, as I was standing by our reporting crew, another guy from our morning show stopped running and did an interview. He's usually joking and making light of situations, but today he had the most sincere and genuine face I've ever seen him wear. He called the race a spiritual experience. Thousands in front, thousands more behind, and the Nashville skyline surrounding them all. He had obviously shed a tear.
Mile eight was clearing out. The runners were now mainly walkers as I turned to go home. The walkers were on a 6 hour pace to complete the 13.1 mile half marathon. They were talking and having a good time with their friends. The more I moved against their flow, the thinner it got. I wondered who would be the person coming up the rear. I wondered how long the committee would let them take.
Then I crossed a street that was blocked off by a police car and a big black cop. I said, "Are you getting any inspiration?" And before I got to the middle of that question he was responding with, "Allllright then." What the hell is that? Brothas do that all the time. It's as if he had no intention of hearing what I was about to say. "Alllright then." I could have said, "Are you ready for an ass whoopin?" and he would have responded the same way. "Are you as dumb as you look?" "Alllright then."
As I re-approached mile seven the groups were two to three walkers. Sometimes they were alone and the gaps had grown dramatically. It was the tail-end of it all. Almost two hours since the first runners had eclipsed that point. Faint music echoed in the distance and I could hear a subtle clap coming from behind a big tree. I looked to the left and an old lady standing on her porch, wearing a lime green sweater. She was alone and it was creepy.
Her home was a massive dark brick structure with a stone foundation. She stood there on the corner of the porch encouraging the final walkers with her claps. "Clap, clap, clap, clap" in the same tempo as the "Go, go, go, go" guy. She didn't say anything, just "clap, clap, clap, clap." The sign at the end of her driveway said, "Don't park in driveway" and she reminded me of Norman Bates' mother from Psycho (I hate that I always use that reference, but that movie depicted the creepy old mother better than anything I could ever describe with words). She was alone and I wondered what her life must be like the other 364 days of the year when she couldn't "clap, clap, clap, clap" for marathon runners that passed her home. Did she practice the clapping? Was it something she thought about while she cooked stew on her ancient stove? Did anyone hear her claps?
Then I thought, what makes me so much different than the little old lady in her green sweater? We were both inspired by 20,000 runners. We both like to observe. And we both can only absorb so much energy before we have to give some back.
I was blessed at midnight
Last night after work, I drummed for my prescribed half-hour. An intense practice session with a click track beeping away in my ears. I was fascinated by how, for some reason, now I can keep time. When I played drums every day for a year and a half, my timing was all over the place. Now it seems dead on. Maybe just living in Nashville has given me an innate sense of time.
After that I promptly laid down for a nap. It was 8:00 and I was out for about 3 hours. When I woke up I turned on IFC (The Independent Film Channel) and was in for the treat of my life. The "MC" said, stay tuned for The Ice Storm and its surprising ending. My first thought was, Ice Storm?, no way will I be into that movie, but within two minutes I knew we had a good one.
It is now one of my favorite movies of all time. Kevin Klein is outstanding in a way Will Ferrel tries to be, but could never pull off. His mix of humor with genuine ability to play the "straight guy" is perfect in my book. The movie is based on a novel and the writing is showcased. There are some other stars in the movie, but it is certainly not Hollywood by any measure.
The dialogue and acting is perfect and subtle in its brilliance. Anyway, definitely recommended, but it's funny how I stayed up until 2 am again and woke up late only to run into work and crush my brain because I was in a huge fog and had to listen to idiocy for the first hour.
Today, I was at the gas station and the damn pump couldn't read my card. I'm standing in the freezing rain in a sport coat, waiving my arms at the clerk inside, but nothing. I tried again and it asked for my zip code. (Who knows which zip code is on this card?) Finally I went in to see what was up and the girl behind the counter was one of those trashy overweight chicks with a constantly on-display tongue ring and a massive hickey to match.
"It's pre-pay only," she mumbled.
I said, "Yeah, but I used my card and the zip code thing didn't work."
"They do it so your card is protected."
NO SHIT BITCH.
Anyway... I stormed over to the ATM and pulled out some cake then pre-paid. She looked at me like I was a lunatic. It was then that I realized I'm getting old and turning into someone I never wanted to be. THAT GUY.
It's a good thing I got a nice lesson in Zen yesterday. A teacher referenced E=MC squared as a mathematical equation, but said in Zen we have an equation too. Suffering = Pain x Resistance. So if Pain is 5 and Resistance is 3, Suffering is 15. But if Pain is 5 and Resistance is 0, Suffering equals 0. Now there's something I can buy into.
Taxing day
Today is April, 15th and Tax Day will be a taxing day in more ways than one.
It starts with an uncharacteristic run this morning. I knew I had to get up early and run just to relax a little. It's a beautiful day and the run had me nice and calm. I got back to my apartment and was opening the door with my key and just as I opened it, my girlfriend pulled back on the door and did the "scare you" sound. While not really scared, it definitely startled me and made me mad that she did it.
I have to let go of two of my employees today. One has been there five months; the other three years. It is not going to be easy and has made me sick to my stomach. Corporate is making a lot of cuts and this is, without question, the toughest thing I've had to do in my professional career.
Anyway, I'm going back to see my parents today. Flying out at 4:30. I won't be posting for a couple days.
Here she comes again
There are too many cars around here. I just tried doing a little skating in the neighborhood bike lane and came back with a measurable increase in my anxiety level. Cars go fast and they seem powerful when you're on a couple of roller skates.
I should talk, I have two cars. And I can honestly say that I try to keep an eye out for bikers and skaters, but the truth is my mind tends to drift. Just imagine how it is for people who aren't focused on our exercising friends. They are seconds from a devistating crash at all times.
That's just how we are these days. (I love how I feel like I can make blanket statements like that). We have a lot on our minds and it leads to a lot of unnecessary "mistakes."
I am calling for a world wide day of meditation to see if we can bring the universal pace down a notch. Calm minds may prevail on more occasion.
Along with that I am proposing we take one other day of the year make it a non-driving day. No cars on the road. Let the kids run free in the streets, let the roller bladers spin out of control, and let the bikers ride wheelies until their hearts are content. Pollution would dip, disgruntled families would be forced to talk and we would save millions on gas.
I'm only asking for two days. Doesn't seem like much. One day we meditate, the other we don't buy gas. Hell, we could even combine the two and only take one day away from our inate desire for commerce.
Turning Shakespeare into asswipe
There is a songwriter festival in town and it is truly heaven for music lovers. Guys and girls who are behind some of the biggest songs on the radio have a chance to showcase their original work in front of people who otherwise would never have known who "came up with" the idea for that song.
It's big business in Nashville because Country stars have been traditionally groomed as entertainers first and the best songwriters are usually more comfortable in front of a wall then a crowd.
Last year I went and saw this skinny white guy with long scraggly hair and an acoustic guitar churning out a huge Mariah Carey hit. "That's how I wrote it anyway," he said. Then he launched into "Crazy Train" or some other hit Ozzy Osborne made famous. It was a striking contrast in styles and equally intriguing that this guy wrote two major hits for different ends of the spectrum.
Sounds cool, right? Well, I stumbled on this guy after about 30 other songwriters with no on stage presence. It's kind of embarrassing to admit (for a self proclaimed music enthusiast), but I was bored off my ass at this thing. All I could think about was, don't EVER underestimate the performance and a good voice. Sure, some were good singers, but they just sat around on a stool (Nashville for "in the round") and played a bunch of lackluster tunes while "geeks like me" sat there and listened patiently in a room where you could hear pre-cum drop.
The point of all this is that I really WANT to be into stuff like that, but I don't have the patience for it anymore. I'm a lyric freak, but the truth is it's the phrasing and the chemistry of a band that makes a song powerful. For example, Bono could sing a corporate training manual and make it seem like killer lyrics and a bad vocalist could turn Shakespeare into asswipe. But if that bad vocalist is say, Bob Dylan, then it's a totally different story.
Therein lies the mystery of music and what makes a band rock. Everyone talks about Lennon and McCartney, but without Harrison and Ringo, they would not have been the Beatles we know today.
I site Van Halen after they kicked Dave out of the band and forever fueled the debate of Roth or Haggar? While I personally prefer Roth, Van Halen was such a good "band" that even Haggar couldn't jack it up too badly. They were different, but not a bad band.
So, these songwriters are where it all begins. Many bands write their own songs. Many solo pop performers do not. Songwriters get the royalties, while the performers get the fame. But neither could survive without the other. Just like songwriter festivals couldn't survive without bored fans like me.
New girlfriend dumped over "Palmetto" jeans
ERIE, PA -- In the Seventies, Jordache, Calvin Klein, and Palmetto jeans shot straight to the hips of teenagers all across America and almost just as fast, they shot right back in the closet for the trendy chicks. But one girl tried to buck the trend and it cost her the hand of her three-year-crush, Curt Moyer.
"Lisa Smith was totally hot," said Danny Thomas who was a good friend of Moyer at the time. "Then she started busting out with the same clothes she wore in High School and Curt would have no part of it."
Lisa's mom used to tell her she was "unique" and should do whatever she felt like doing. "Boys will appreciate your independence," she would say, but Moyer just couldn't look at her the same anymore."
I mean Lisa was a totally hot chick," Moyer said from the seat of his '78 Camero. "I was all about her, but you know how it is when you see someone do something that totally bugs you. It's hard to get passed it."
Smith tried to win back Curt's hand by stocking up on Guess and Girbaud jeans, but it was too late for Moyer.
"I don't care if she would have walked in with silk panties and a cashmere bra, all I could see were those damned Palmetto jeans."
"The Onion" softens under corporate cloud
MADISON, WI - For years Terry Hanson used to call his buddy Jim and tell him about the latest headlines in The Onion, but lately he says he's been embarrassed to share anything out of that "fledgling rag." "
I saw that 'Onion guy' on a few talk shows and now it seems like they've gone from Animal House to Bad Santa," said a head scratching Hanson. The paper that trumps itself as "America's Finest News Source" has admittedly had a hard time keeping ideas fresh since they've added leather furniture to the reception area.
"Maybe we're getting a little soft, but I stand behind our reporting 100%," said Al Phelps founder and President of Onion, Inc. "Yes, maybe we've had better times, but I'll tell you this, I have never smoked a better cigar!"
The confidence level has dropped since The Onion's head writer has gone over to the "Daily Show" and it is starting to show up where loyal readers fear it most: the front page. "Food Fight Pisses Off Janitor" and "Bush Follows Cheney Into Restroom" are the latest from this storied paper and Hanson is beside himself.
"That's flat-out not funny," he says.
The "form" of things to come
Last night I was sitting in the lobby of a posh beauty care and massage studio filling out a the pre-requisite "first timer" form when it occured to me that I have probably wasted about half of my life filling out applications for crap.
Come on. What is up with all the paper? It's time for the embedded chip. Wave your hand in front of a sensor and they have the information they need. Name, address, surgery history, skin sensitivity quotient, favorite color and Mom's maiden name. I mean, that's really what we've become anyway. A demographic. Just once I would like one of those forms to ask my opinion about life or extramarital affairs or something. Get to the meat of who I really am. Not my name and age. That says nothing about who I am. Or maybe they should add a column right after age that says "feels like you are ____."
Speaking of affairs, I see the Tennessee legislature has introduced a bill that would make spouses who are caught cheating pay a fine on top of divorce costs. Now THAT is thinking. Hmm... how can we stop people from pursuing one of the most powerful urges in existance? FINE THEM! Yeah, great idea!
The reality of the situation is, that if you dug in a little bit the party NOT CAUGHT cheating should probably pay the fine. They have most certainly driven the "cheater" half-way to the nut farm and to me that's much worse than a little adultery.
Or better yet...make them fill out a form. People hate that.
